If you’ve spent much time in or around Quispamsis, then you’ve probably heard tales of the hermit. According to legend, there’s a man on an island in the Kennebecasis River who lives alone with nothing but his dogs and a clear disconnect from the hustle and bustle around him.
Some say he will chase you from his shores with an axe, but others insist he sits by his radio all day long listening to CBC enjoying his isolation. Needless to say, the first time I heard about this mysterious man, I was immediately intrigued.
Explorer’s paradise
Growing up as a shy young boy in rural New Hampshire with a sister, with whom I shared no interests, I tucked into the woods whenever possible. My dad taught me at an early age the basics of fishing, mountain biking, hiking and many other activities. What I didn’t learn from him, I taught myself.
Lucky for me, I just had to cross the street and I was in a little explorer’s paradise. I lived at the base of Welch Top, which is the furthest peak to the west in a small chain of mountains, unmolested by roads or houses for some miles.
I came up with my own name for every stream I crossed and every cliff or cave I came across that didn’t show up on a map. I even marked my favourite routes with fluorescent ribbon so that I could quickly find the “trailheads” that I would hike, run, and cross-country ski.
I knew those woods like the back of my hand and never actually needed any of those ribbons, but I’m sure I confused anyone looking for the property lines which were marked in the same color.
In school, I always played sports and I was friends with the kids in my class, but I was never more comfortable than when I was in the woods.
When I was a young teenager, I got my hunting licence and would cross the mountains often with my rifle over my shoulder, or I would head to a secluded section of Pine River with my buddies and catch hundreds of yellow perch for every one brook trout we were trying to catch.
If I couldn’t go outside because there was a storm or it was too late, I read about the outdoors. Tucked away somewhere I still have a copy of One Man’s Wilderness, a collection of journals by Richard Proenneke about living alone in the Alaskan wilderness. I’ve gone through this book dozens of times and cared so much about it, I would store it on the shelf wrapped in scraps of flannel I took from my mother’s sewing bag.
I dreamed of having a spot to myself surrounded by what would seem to some as nothing, but to me was everything.
My daydreams have evolved a bit since then and involve a career and a family before a possible homestead in retirement. But when I first heard about the man alone on an island, known as a hermit to many, I felt a connection to this man, having never even met him.
A page, a man and a name
I was able to determine from multiple people’s testimonies, the island he lived on is known as Mather or Mathers Island just off the north shore of Long Island in Kingston. From a quick Google search I came across a WordPress site titled, Mathers Island—Shifting Communities, Static Places. I started reading.
“The present community of Mathers is distinctly different from its past. Today, the sole permanent inhabitant of Mathers is Jim Clark, who lives there year round. The island is owned, however, by Mathers Island Limited – a group of friends who purchased the island in 1975. This is an odd period for a historical website to cover, however, as most of the sources – visual, written, or other medium for study – remain firmly locked in the hands of family, rather than in archives. As such, most of my links come from my own connection with the Mathers Island community. Some, like Jim, prefer their privacy, and others who have property on the island I do not personally know. This project, however, will remain as ongoing as my connection to the island.”
Jim Clark.
I had a name. More Google searches though, led to more questions and I kept being brought back to the same WordPress site. I had to keep reading.
“Though he preferred to live a solitary life, Jim enjoyed our visits. We enjoyed them as well, getting to know this beautiful island and the animals who lived on it – without a dedicated bridge or ferry Jim relied on dog-sledding and boating to cross to the mainland for supplies. My family enjoyed helping Jim feed and entertain the dogs dispersed around his home, as well as the chickens, rabbits, and cats who lived here”
From this section and a couple others mentioning Jim Clark, I concluded that, as suspected, it did not seem like he was an angry man or someone with an innate hate for society. He was just a man living on his own with a desire to surround himself with the things that make him happy. Of course, this was just my speculation and I am admittedly biased toward this type of existence, but this made me even more excited to do anything possible to meet this man and sit down to talk over a beer.
Private means private
The whole website takes about twenty minutes to read through, and it seemed this was the only information I could access regarding the island or its sole year-round resident on the Internet. The second-to-last page on the site though, is titled Community and the Island: Digitalizing the History of Mather’s Isle and talks about efforts to take historical documents and photographs and catalogue them online. This is where I come across the name of Jim’s daughter, Alexa Clark, a content marketing strategist, and for obvious reasons, much easier to contact.
I sent off an email asking her about her father and if she would pass along a request for an interview with him.
She responded nicely informing me that I should not get my hopes up, but she would forward my inquiry to him. She also sent me the link to a post on her blog titled Private means Private which describes a long list of offences which have been committed against them and their island and thus their view towards people that find their way to its shores.
“It means we are more protective of our families, our children and our island.
It makes us less likely to let you finish your picnic before you get off our private island.
It makes us unfriendly when we find you standing on our path and ask “Do you know this is a private island?” Especially when you answer ‘Yes.’
It makes you unwelcome, not because you aren’t a nice person but because enough people have been disrespectful, damaged our property, stolen from us, threatened us and put our lives as risk that you are NOT WELCOME to visit without being invited.
It’s kind of what “Private” means.
No, excuse me, it’s exactly what “Private” means.”
As much as I would enjoy talking with Jim and would like to assume that would be mutual, after reading this post, I understood their perspective. I realized I am, in fact, just another person looking to see what Jim and his island are all about.
A few days later, I started a reply email to Alexa attempting to explain how my interests are in line with Jim’s. That I want to explain, in a way others might understand, why he wants his privacy. But after sending it, I realize trying to explain the feeling I got when I was reading about him and his island life. A feeling like I know him. But I do not know him, and looking back, I see I was looking to explain his desire for privacy was irrelevant, all that matters is he wants his privacy and that’s been expressed.
Paradise lost
After I came to terms with the loss of the story, I spent days trying to come up with a replacement; to no avail. I couldn’t stop thinking about the island, and how great of piece it could make. So I decided if I couldn’t get out to talk with Jim Clark, I had to at least see the island for myself. I grabbed a friend from Quispamsis and we got in the car.
Halfway through our 90 minute trip, I busily wrote this piece in the passenger seat until my finicky transmission revved into the red. The rear view mirror showed plumes of smoke and we pulled over.
Since I bought my 1996 Jeep Grand Cherokee, the transmission and I have had a love/hate relationship. I loved the deal I got because of the work that it needed when I bought it, but I hate the number of times it’s sat on the side of the highway pissing bright red transmission fluid in the middle of a long trip. I spent the next hour fixing my transmission oil cooler lines and we nursed the car to Saint John on the one spare quart I had.
Silence in the end
I stood on Smeagle’s rock looking across the Kennebecasis River crusted by jagged ice flows. Even if I was invited over at this point, I couldn’t go because of the breakup. From behind me, I could hear the bustle of Saint John and surrounding towns. From the island there was nothing. There was neither a light nor the sound of a car. Looking across at his quiet island I couldn’t help but feel that out there was a man that I might become.
